The Grog Nog

“There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humor.” Charles Dickens wrote these encouraging words when he penned A Christmas Carol, forever changing the way we celebrate our most heavily anticipated holiday. From gift-giving to celebratory dinners, family traditions to the commercial side of things, focusing on the "all mighty dollar," there's no denying this once nearly forgotten holiday is everywhere around us during the winter season. Unfortunately, not everyone feels quite "Christmassy" this year.

Seasons greetings, my thirsty readers! Did you miss me? While my obligations outside of this screen have kept me a bit too busy to share more tales and tipples with you as of late, I didn't think I could let this holiday season go by without a visit from our old friend. He's a horrid old miser, consumed by money, and it would seem, he's perhaps the only person unfazed by the Christmas spirit. No, I don't mean Ebenezer Scrooge. I'm speaking of someone much more sinister. He is known by many names these days, but here in Shakerland, we know him as the Grog....

Frank Grog was dead, to begin with, there is no doubt whatsoever about that. Dead as a door nail, but not an ordinary door nail. We're talking Grog brand door nails, signed by the groggy one himself. "Collector's items they're destined to become, believe me!" His death certificate was signed off by the suckers and losers the local morgue could scrounge up on short notice. Only one person remained, after a long argument about lack of payment had ensued. There stood the maker of such doornails himself, our old friend, the Grog.

The Grog knew his father was dead of course. How could it be otherwise? There is no doubt that Frank was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. Everyone understand? Good, I think we can move one from here.

Now, it's been 25 years from that gloomy day, when the Grog stood by the casket of his deceased father and business partner. Though so much time had passed, the Grog never removed his father's groggy name from the sign on Grog Tower. It seemed a waste of money, and that's the one thing he never wished to part from.

A hard fist to the grindstone, that's what the Grog would wish for everyone to think. The truth of the matter though, is he always found a way to get everyone else to do the dirty work, and he didn't even have to pay them. Why, he barely paid his own clerk, J. C. Rachet, whom only a short while before, claimed to hate the Grog. He always saw himself as a "Never Grog" type, but we all know times are hard. "Rachet," snarled the Grog, "Call the McDonalds, I'm firing up Jeffrey's jet!" You see, when the Grog became upset, he generally turned to his favorite drug, cheeseburgers.

As he began to dive into his cancerous feast, in burst two gentlemen from the ACFU. "A Merry Christmas to you gentlemen! Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Grog Jr. or Sr.?" If there was one thing the Grog hated more than having his lunch interrupted, it was being asked to support charity! "Grog Sr. has been dead these 25 years, and I am no Jr. Just call me the Grog! Christmas? That's nothing but fake news!"

The men looked shocked, though I don't know why, at this point. "Fake news sir? What a terrible thing to say. It's at this particular time of year, we ask for donations for those poor and unfortunate immigrants who need legal counsel. What can we put you down for?" So far, the Grog had kept himself calm, by less civilized standards of course, but the request of money sent him into a french-fry-induced rage. "Christmas was created by China to make me look bad! These people don't need my help, they need to go back where they came from. They're liars, and rapists, and they're bringing in all of the drugs! Fake news! Fake news to you all! Are there no walls, no privately owned prisons? I already support those enough, by pretending to pay taxes!"

It was at this time, while shoving the pleasant men out the door, they were replaced by his smiling niece, Molly Grog. "Merry Christmas to you uncle!" With the same frown, still sitting on his haggard face, the Grog mearly grunted at his much younger, kinder, and sane family member. "I don't know what you have to be merry about, you don't even have your own bible! Where are your comemorative sneakers? Christmas is fake news anyways!" Unfazed by her uncle's crazed rantings, she continued on "Uncle, you don't have to be so awful. I'm here to invite you to celebrate Christmas with the rest of us, instead of sitting at home, posting angy tweets and eating fast food. You can change your ways, giving hope back to all who you've wronged! It is the season for caring afterall! Please, don't be so weird!"

"I'm not the weird one! It's everyone else who's weird with their Christmas nonsense! If I had my way, everyone who cheered 'Merry Christmas' would be boiled in Starbucks Covfefe, and buried with a Chik-fil-a sandwich in their mouth! Christmas is fake news!" Hearing this, Molly stormed out of her enraged uncle's building. She knew he was awful, but this was just too much.

As the clock stuck five, and before leaving his Grog Tower for the night, "Rachet!" snarled the Grog, "I know you'll want tomorrow off, but you'd better tell me I'm the smartest twice the next day!" With that he slammed the office door and headed out of the building towards his home. As he walked with a slump, both shoulders foward, a sour expression was on the face of the old miser, and he found himself thinking of his deceased father and business partner. "I'm not even close to 80" he mumble aloud, though his 79th year was growing quite close. Still lost in his thoughts, upon entering his building, the doorman, though known to him, appeared with the face of none other than that ratfaced Frank Grog himself! Not truly believing his eyes, and startled from his brooding, the Grog ran past the doorman and into the elevator.

"I need to stop being so amazing and busy," the Grog thought, "I might end up doing some actual work if I'm not careful! I'm even seeing things I know not could be true!" Inside his cold and golden penthouse, his wife, Svetlana Grog, had already left for the evening. "She somehow always has plans when I'm going to be home," pondered the Grog. His severe delusion wouldn't allow him to see the truth. Nobody wanted to be around his misery.

After a few more fried snacks, he settled into his groggy pajamas. It was just as he was falling asleep, he heard what sounded like ties! Yes, the sound of long, Italian silk ties dragging along the ground. Suddenly, the doors burst open, and a spectre appeared. "Grog!!" The spirit said, "Do you know me?" The Grog squinted and looked, but he shook his head "no," having never seen a ghost in general, let alone a specific one. "Who are you?" he asked, "another nasty woman from the press? Fake news!"

The sprit laughed, "In life, I was your father and partner, Frank Grog!" He couldn't believe what was he was hearing. "Why do you wear so many long ties then, Frank?"

"These are the long, ugly ties I forged in life," laughed the ghost, "These are for all the nasty, awful things, we used to do, remember?"

"You mean like marching in Klan rallies or kicking out tenants for being black?" The Grog was horrified now.

"The very same," Frank's ghost replied. "we lied and cheated so much, I'm now forced to wander the earth and watch the suffereing I've caused." The spirit could tell he had the Grog's full attention now. "Tonight, you'll be visited by three more dead people, trying to tell you to change, to avoid my fate. If I know you, you'll probably make it about yourself, and fail, but I beg you to heed their warnings!"

It was just then that the spirit left, leaving the Grog needing a fresh pair of Depends. After getting back into bed and slurping down a few Diet Cokes, he fell fast asleep, until the clock chimed midnight . Just as the clock its 12th chime, he was awakened by a bright light. "Grog!" cried a voice from the end of his bed. "It's time to awaken!"

Standing at the end of his bed, was a glowing figure, not much larger than a child. "Are you one of the nasty dead people I heard about?" asked the Grog.

"I am the ghost of Christmas Lies," said the small spirit. "I'm here to show you how the things you've said could never possibly be true! Oh, the nonesense you've spoken! Take my hand, and come with me."

As if in a trance, the Grog reached out his stubby little hand and away they went. When he opened his eyes, the Grog was in a familiar place. "That's me," the Grog blurted out of his fat groggy face. "That's me sitting on my golden toilet, posting my wisdom on the internet."

"But do you remember what you said?" asked the spirit.

"I don't think so, but I'm sure it was brilliant. Simply the best!" It was then that they got closer, seeing what was on his phone screen. " Well, let us see, you said that every legal scholar wanted Roe v. Wade overturned! Now you know thats not right and makes absoutely no sense at all! Were you high, delusional, or is that just who you are?" demanded the spirit with a frustrated tremble in her voice.

You could tell the Grog was a bit irritated, but he wouldn't be swayed. "I never said any of that, that's just fake news. I'm just imagining this all. You could be the result of a bad McDouble, or some old fries. Yeah, there's more Kentucky Fried than the other side of you!"

Suddenly, the Grog was back in his chambers. He was covered in sweat, and confused. This would seem normal for the Grog, except he remembered the spirit's words, "were you high?" He smiled to himself, realizing this was just another compliment to his brilliance. "I was very high, highly ranked, everyone argrees, " he thought to himself, "I'm the best that ever was! I built the best economy the world every knew!" At this point the Grog became dizzy, lost in his own dilusion, and he soon found himself in another familiar setting.

"Do you know where we are now?" asked the spirit. He looked around, and immediately knew the place. It was the filthy parking lot of a landscaping company. "This is the Four Seasons Landscaping," he grumbled, "Rudy booked the wrong place, that's why I didn't pay him!"

"Do you remember what you claimed? Do you remember the reason they're here?" The spirit now looked at him with a bright grin, sure they could help him understand now.

"Yes, of course! They stole it! They stole the whole election. Fake news! Fake news I tell ya!" As the Grog blurted out this last line of nonesense, the spirit face-palmed and whisked them away. It didn't seem this approach was working too well. Soon he was fast asleep, back in his chambers.

"Grog! Wake up Grog!" He opened his eyes, but didn't know where the sound was coming from. "We couldn't wait any longer Grog, let's go!" As if at once, two more spectres appeared above the Grogs cold bed. "We decided to come to you at once, because the first ghost told us how much of a jackass you are. What's your deal anyways?"

"I guess you're the other two ghosts I'm supposed to talk to," the Grog inquired, "what kind of nonsense are you supposed to show me?"

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Ridiculousness, and he's the Ghost of Christmas Consequence. Do you remember when you called white supremesists 'very fine people?' the newly arrived spirits inquired. I don't see much hope for you. You are the most vile creature we've ever come across, and this is what we do! I think it's time to turn things over to my friend Consequence.

The Grog was so terrified, as he'd never actually done an ounce of physical activity in his life, let alone fight two intimidating ghosts. "Please leave me be! I'll change my ways," the Grog cried, "I'll be a better man. I'll hold Christmas in my heart, and not just for the rich, but for everyone. I'll stop going after people based on their gender, sexuality, or race. I'll treat woman with the same respect I would a white guy with money. I'll actually take the time to find out the truth, before I say awful lies that hurt everyone. Please, don't break my feeble old face!"

The spirits laughed as the Grog pleaded. He clutched their robes, asking not to be beaten. But just then, there was a soft morning light in his room. The Grog saw no ghosts. He was alone. "It was all a dream," the Grog exclaimed, "This was all a rotten dream!" Then that same awful grin came across his smug face. "I'll never be a changed man. As a matter of fact, I'm going to be twice as awful. I'll do that Christmas stuff though. Religious stuff is good for votes. As for everything else, it's all fake news! Bah!"

The Grog walked outside to take in this fresh new day as the same old awful Grog he'd always been. He yawned and looked up at the rising sun, just as a snow-covered city bus came barreling down the road, coming straight towards our old grouchy protagonist. And before he knew what was happening, the Grog was struck by the bus, ending his old wicked ways. There was just something right in the world, all of a sudden, and I think that might have been the spirits' plan all along.

It just so happens, the Grog was as good as his word, and more. It turns out, a world without the Grog made things better than everyone could have possibly imagined. A fog seemed to lift from the old miser's cronies, and the spirit of Christmas seemed to just flow through the entire land.

Weeks later, the streets long cleared, and the people more at ease, a confident figure, a true beacon of hope walked down the street, with a certain bounce to their step. "What day is it?" they asked. "Why it's January 20th," came a reply. "January 20th," they said, with a tear in their eye, "So I haven't missed it afterall."

The Grog Nog

1.25oz Aged Barbados Rum

.5oz Aged Guyanese Rum

.25oz Unaged Overproof Jamaican Rum

Barspoon Fernet Branca

.25oz Allspice Dram

.25oz Grapefruit Liqueur

.25oz Honey Syrup

.25oz Cream of Coconut

1oz Heavy Cream

1 Whole Egg

Short Wine Glass

Shake all ingredients first without ice, until fully combined.

Add ice, and shake again, until fully chilled and dilluted.

Strain into small wine glass or punch cup.

Garnish with grated cinnamon, one star anise, and a parasol.

Now, I hope we all had a few fun and cheap laughs at the Grog's expense. I do feel things might have gone a bit differently for the Grog, if he had just listened to those concerned ghosts. I don't know though, maybe I am wrong. Go ahead, prove me wrong Grog. Please, prove me wrong, for the love of all Christmases to come, prove me wrong. As for the rest of you cocktail loving shakers out there, a Merry Christmas to all and keep shaking.